


Call Me In the Afternoon

by alicekittridge



Series: Moments In Time [4]
Category: The Haunting of Bly Manor (TV)
Genre: An angst writer did the impossible and wrote fluff, Character Study, F/F, Fluff, Missing Scene, POV Second Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:09:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27397741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/pseuds/alicekittridge
Summary: You are afraid to disrupt the moment, not wanting to burst the bubble she’s created around herself, but the image of scattered petals and greens is too hard to set aside, and the roses in your hands—cut by very inexpert ten-year-old hands—are in need of a rescue you’re not equipped to provide.
Relationships: Dani Clayton/Jamie
Series: Moments In Time [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982450
Kudos: 61





	Call Me In the Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> I have done the impossible and actually wrote fluff. Believe me when I say this was quite challenging! 
> 
> This takes place after Miles has cut Jamie's roses and given them to Dani. The title is from Half Moon Run's song by the same name.
> 
> Thank you for reading xx

**Y** ou find Jamie in the rose garden, crouched over a bucket, cursing softly under her breath as she carefully snips the rose poised between her fingers. Her hair is a little lighter in the sun. It settles just above her striped shoulders like it’s afraid to touch them. And you are afraid to disrupt the moment, not wanting to burst the bubble she’s created around herself, but the image of scattered petals and greens is too hard to set aside, and the roses in your hands—cut by very inexpert ten-year-old hands—are in need of a rescue you’re not equipped to provide.

You step forward, gravel crunching underneath your shoes. Jamie’s head turns toward the sound but she does not look over her shoulder.

“Want some help?” you ask.

“Did you bring me a G&T?”

“Oh. No. I could, if you—”

“I’m jokin’, Poppins,” she says. The kindness in her voice with the addition of the nickname feel akin to sunlight spreading through your limbs.

Jamie stands with an audible sigh and continues, “Not much you can do here. Gardenin’s a bit out of your comfort zone.”

“This whole job is,” you say, rather under your breath, but still loud enough to be heard. You set the roses by her bucket. “And anyway, these need your help.”

Jamie picks them up and sighs again. “I might not forgive him for this.”

You nod. The words slip out before you can trap them. “ _You_ should’ve cut them.”

She fixes you with a surprised mask at your boldness. Before anything more can be read into it, you ask Jamie where she keeps her broom.

Together, you’re a diligent team, you sweeping up leaves and parts of stems and several pairs of thorns and soft, silky rose petals, Jamie rescuing the roses Miles had given you earlier in the afternoon. You nearly make a comment about how there should be a way to stitch the roses back onto the bush and cut them again once they’re ready, but you don’t think she’ll find it as amusing as you do.

Jamie says, after a while, “You should keep the petals. Let ‘em dry in your dresser.”

They’re quite pretty, you think, gazing at the pile and the several more you still have to sweep. Red and white, sprinkled across the gravel like confetti. You say, “It does seem a shame to waste them.”

“Little shit thought differently.” A pause. “Did you talk to him?”

“I did. I said he owes you a thorough apology and needs lessons on the delicacies of gardening.”

You think you see a smirk tug up the left corner of Jamie’s mouth.

The silence that follows is comfortable, in the oddest of ways; yet somehow there’s a feeling of wanting to say something—but what? A comment about the weather? A question about lunch? Ask if Jamie is serious about the gin and tonic?

Jamie breaks it first. “Rescued your roses.”

You lean the broom and dustpan against the white table. Carefully, you take them from her. They look pristine. Good enough for an expensive flower shop. “Wow,” you say, pathetically, wishing you could say something more. _“They’re beautiful,”_ or _“You have very green thumbs.”_

“He must think you’re cute,” Jamie says, “if he’s cuttin’ my roses and handin’ them over.”

Unwillingly, a blush crawls into your cheeks. “I don’t think so,” you say, shaking your head. “He gave them to me after apologizing for locking me in the closet.”

Jamie’s face clouds over, but no thunder escapes her lips. Only, “We should put ‘em in water.”

Quickly, you take a handful of rose petals and drop them into one of Jamie’s empty buckets and walk with her to the house. You go in the back way and into the kitchen, greeted by the smell of roast beef, buttered rolls, and seasoned potatoes. The children, thankfully, are not at the table. You don’t think Jamie can handle even looking in Miles’ general direction without wanting to hurl a vase at his head. The kitchen’s population is just down to four.

“Smells like heaven, Owen,” Jamie says, voice muffled by the under-the-sink cabinet.

“We saved some for you,” Hannah says. “Though it was awfully tempting not to.”

“Seconds are always encouraged here,” Owen says, sliding more onto a plate. He hands it to Hannah with a wink. Their affection for each other is warm, you notice, and getting warmer every day.

“I hope your garden’s floating again, Jamie,” Hannah says.

“It will be,” Jamie says. She’s filling a green glass vase with water from the sink. “Dani’s helped with the life preservers today.”

You wave your hand. “It was only a bit of sweeping.”

“And scoldin’,” Jamie adds.

“Gentle discipline,” you correct. “The scolding we leave to this one.” You nudge Jamie with your shoulder, smiling at her scoff.

The roses and their vase and your bucket of petals are set aside for lunch, on a far counter where they won’t get in the way. Before getting a bite in, Jamie requests a gin and tonic, her excuse being, “I’ll have to fortify myself against further bullshit.”

“Good enough for me,” Owen says.

The kitchen is warm and bright. Lunch is flavorful and filling. You realize, as conversations bounce around the room from one topic to the next, that your statement to Jamie may not have been wholly true. Being an au pair _is_ out of your comfort zone, but in moments like these, it doesn’t feel as daunting.

Like a married couple, Hannah and Owen insist on the dishes. Hannah shoos you away with a “Go have fun, you two. You won’t get many opportunities. Naps for the children are rare.” So you walk from the kitchen with Jamie, who pauses in the back hallway, green vase in hand.

“Here,” she says, holding it out to you. “They’re for you, anyway.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Go on. The thorns won’t bite. They’re gone.”

You smile. Take the vase. The roses, despite being cut early, smell sweet. You don’t touch their petals. Jamie had told you touching them made them wilt faster. “Thank you.”

She nods. “Anytime.” Her hands find her jean pockets. “I best get back out. The sun won’t last.” She makes her way to the door, then pauses. “Don’t worry about the rest.”

“I’ll see you for dinner, Jamie,” you say, the smile still tugging at you.

She gives you a little salute, and turns to the sun.

Making good on Jamie’s suggestion, you scatter the petals in the drawers that hold your clothes. They’ll dry, and leave a sweet fragrance in their wake.

The vase you set on your nightstand, strategically placed to block the view of Eddie’s cracked glasses. Perhaps, you think, admiring them in the golden light coming through your window, as they slowly wilt, they’ll come to smell like someone else. Like Jamie.


End file.
